


The Yellow Locust Tree

by GeataRionnag



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016), Stargate - All Media Types
Genre: Angus MacGyver has an uncle, Mac's grandpa Jackson is dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 05:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeataRionnag/pseuds/GeataRionnag
Summary: I've been playing around with this idea for quite awhile-- Angus MacGyver is the older cousin of Daniel Jackson, and when Daniel's parents die MacGyver is the only family member old enough and willing to take care of the boy.Might turn into something else as it progresses-- more fandoms probably.I've taken liberties with chronology. Set in the modern day. The MacGyver shown more closely resembles the current reboot, but seems to have some elements of the 80s version.





	The Yellow Locust Tree

**12109 Whispering Pine Lane, Spruce Lake, Montana. August 23rd, 2002.**  
_Ellen M. (Jackson) MacGyver (30)/Harry D. Jackson (58) case. Both DOA._  
 _Cause of death: Impact and drowning._  
 _Victim 1-- wife to one James MacGyver (33). Mother of one Angus MacGyver (5)._  
 _Victim 2-- husband of one late Cynthia Jackson. Father of victim 1 and one Melburn Jackson (23). Grandfather of one Angus MacGyver (5)._

~~~~

It was a rainy night, not pleasant in the least. Young Angus sat alone in the mellow light of incandescent bulbs screwed into old brass fixtures, hidden and shaped by brown lampshades. The rain hit the window regularly, loud enough to become a pleasant melody, but fortunately not jarring as it had been several minutes before. When the lightning struck, it flashed brilliant light through the droplets and showed the regal, twisted old yellow locust trees that grew outside, casting a shadow upon the window pane.

He was alone in the house on Whispering Pine Lane. It was an old house, and the boy felt sure that something had died there. It wasn't a thought intended in a bad way, it just had the feeling of a portal to some better world. His father was gone on something for work-- as usual, he wouldn't return for several weeks. His mother and grandfather were out picking up groceries or some odd errand.

Angus shifted in his seat, the old wood and leather creaking merrily in delight at the movement of some young vital thing such has he. He slid off the smooth cold edge of the seat and landed on the carpet below, colored brown-tan with age. The old grandfather clock stood by the wall, doling out seconds on seconds and minutes on minutes.

The wind blew a good deal, and the old house creaked, but Angus could hardly be afraid. There was a warmth to the place. It sometimes made him wonder just how bad it would be to die. He figured that there must be some better place after this world. It wouldn't be hard to be better, but then, it wouldn't be hard to be worse. He supposed it was an odd thing for a child of five to ponder, but no matter. Some people called him mature, or intelligent, and that made him feel good. It sometimes worried his mother, though, which didn't feel quite as good.

As it was, in the dark old house on Whispering Pine Lane, there was music, and Angus was glad that the mildly monotonous rhythm of wind and rain and creaks and thoughts could not be broken by conversation. Conversation was a dull thing, but the mind was a place of colors. The boy wondered if the world after was a place of colors, too. The way the house was, he felt that it would be. He knew that years before his grandmother had died there, and the warmth of the house was just as it had been when she passed-- it seemed from that alone that she simply had to be somewhere colorful.

Angus didn't like to connect his personal life with the rambling of his thoughts. It felt... wrong, somehow. Maybe he was a bit afraid. He picked up on things an five-year-old shouldn't. He had reasons to fear. He avoided using them, however. He hoped that he wouldn't have to actually experience the things he thought of. They could be quite... scarring. They weren't nice. The honey-bright conversations that people liked to have weren't a good place to talk about them-- he knew that.  
Above the rain and the wind and the creaks and his thoughts, he heard something new. Gravel crunched-- the driveway. He turned back to glance at the rainy window panes and saw the streaking drops of water reflecting the bright light of a car. It was a different shape of light from the car he knew his mother and grandfather had taken. He was wary, of course, as young boys should, but he was curious, and full of dread. There was a problem to the time he spent in his mind-- he had developed the habit of over-thinking everything. And that had brought on anxiety. It really was something no young child should experience, but he bore it. It was times like these that it took control.

It was as if he sensed something dark. It wasn't evil, it was... tugging, heavy. Sad. Grief? Pity? He felt an almost macabre trust towards those out in the rain. He padded across the slate-tile foyer to the burgundy colored door. He grasped the bronze handle, and opened it to the porch, the wood stacks forming a safe wall to the left. Angus stepped onto the concrete porch, thankful for the overhang. The rain water was pooling at the edge of the concrete block, and it was clear that the drops had stained even more of the floor dark with moisture.

Two men stepped out of the car. A detail he hadn't caught before-- blast him, he was supposed to be observant-- was a slow blue and red light that would go on and off. It was a police car, he realized. The men approaching the door wore black slickers over dark blue uniforms and their faces, from what he could see, were not cheerful. Angus took a step forward, his bare toes gently touching the wet pools of water, his ankles being splashed with the still falling rain. The two officers made their way up the sidewalk steps quietly, the only sound produced by them being the slapping clunk of their boots in the puddles that had formed throughout the evening.

“James MacGyver?” The taller of the two officers asked, stepping onto the porch.

Angus shook his head. “He's not home. Won't be for awhile. I'm Angus,” he said somberly. “I'm home alone,” he offered, his words placed carefully like those of a man on some fallen tree suspended above a gorge, finding his balance around black thorns that grew out of the trunk.

“Poor kid's probably waiting,” the shorter officer muttered. His partner nodded with pity.

“Son, can we step inside?” He asked the boy. Angus nodded slightly, getting the door for them. The three stepped inside. The officers pulled off their windbreakers and hung them on the closet door for the time being. They followed the blond-headed boy into the living room and sat uneasily on the leather couch. “Son, do you know where we can reach your father?” He inquired gently.

“He left a number in the kitchen, next to the fridge. I haven't moved it,” Angus replied, his mouth feeling dry. The shorter officer stood up again and went to contact the boy's father.

“Son, we... I have to tell you something. You're waiting for your mom to get back, and your grandfather?” The tall officer said quietly.

Angus nodded his head. Worry tumbled through him. He knew what the officers were here to say. Death seared the boy's heart. His mother, his grandfather, they were dead. He knew it. “They're dead,” he stated solemnly, not looking up. “Aren't they?” 

There was no need for an excuse for fear. It leapt at him, sprang like some wild cat. He felt his whole being melt into one thorny mass of fear and pain and darkness. The feelings grew from his heart like the yellow locust trees outside that sprang from the carpet of dead leaves. There it was again-- death.

Fear had pinned him down, and with the officer's pained nod, the feral predator ripped out the boy's heart. 

The kid was alone.

~~~~


End file.
